


if you would only let you

by littletrouble



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 20:56:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littletrouble/pseuds/littletrouble
Summary: immediately follows 2x08; a few moments of contemplation from Eve's POV





	if you would only let you

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Mitski's "I Will"

_A log cabin, snowed in and slanting against Villanelle’s body on the sofa, the pressed edges of them smudging like graphite for miles _—_ too far to measure. There’s a lively fire in the hearth, wine stains in the coffee mugs, and Hugh Grant telling the American president off on the flat screen before them._

 

_The knives are in the kitchen, the gun is for hunting game, and all of Europe lays across a faraway ocean, silly and compact and expensive._

 

* * *

 

The ground felt good, Eve had decided. Around her leered a panopticon of lethal beauty, abandoned by the tourists and even the residents of Rome. She supposed that all creatures have means of anticipating when a storm’s about to hit, a tsunami about to break, and taking flight. Some critical sense tying her to the natural world must have died then, because Eve was laying in the heart of the garden of Eden after God had locked the gates, after the sin had been purged and the land had fallen silent for eternity.

 

The ground felt good, Eve had decided, because it held her and her blood aboveground rather than letting the soil or water pull them under and apart. Time was under the influence as she lay still, so divinely still, like Hugo had said one should (though Villanelle likely knew she was alive anyway _—_ wanted her to spend some time laying quiet and losing blood. Maybe there’d been too much of it in her, rushing in her ears and making her say things that had broken both their hearts).

 

She thought maybe enough time had passed for her to cease playing dead and look for help, so she started to rise _—_

 

_—_ only to find no muscle in her was willing to comply with what her mind demanded her body do, with what she knew she had to do to stop herself from slipping into a lonely, dissatisfied death.

 

The ground felt good, Eve had decided, and the ground must like her back because they seemed locked in an inseparable embrace. The last time Eve had rejected an admirer (three _—_ no, fifteen...forty minutes ago?) it had ended painfully (hadn't ended, was painful and getting worse still), so she gave in and let herself be held.

 

While the shape of the thing coming out of her belly slowed in its expansion, while it thinned out and filled in the cracks of the stone pavement, Eve returned to the cabin.

 

_They would be there tonight, eating spaghetti and meat sauce and good bread and better wine. Villanelle had said whatever she wanted, so Eve chose a red she had had once at a friend’s wedding over a decade ago. She couldn’t remember the name but, in the cabin tonight, Villanelle would figure it out for her. She’d surmise the name and year using what Eve told her of the notes of plum and spice, the color of the label on the bottle, and maybe—yes, even a brush of telepathy._

 

Eve would like that _—_ she didn’t like having to ask for what she wanted or having to articulate how she felt. Every attempt at honesty was self-sabotaged by the parts of her closest to the surface, the filter that distorted Eve’s honest feelings into what her panicked moral center thought they ought to be.

 

It was how she got here, torso ripped open by a bullet whose fury had equaled that which she’d aroused in the assassin by shutting down and piercing Villanelle's vulnerability with rabid spite. It had been like stabbing the girl all over again, only this time Eve felt no panic, no remorse, no anything. She was numb and, despite the high Italian sun, increasingly cold.

 

If she could, she’d let Villanelle alone have the spare key so she could break into her head like she had her home. The assassin could spend hours rifling through Eve’s war-torn mind with a sharp eye, her polyglot’s ear deciphering the hundreds of whispering impulses and desires that left the agent feeling like an alien in her own body. And then Villanelle would step back, and smile, and say with so much relief _we are the same, we are the same…_

 

* * *

 

 

_The blizzard has soothed itself into a quiet flurry, but they really won’t be able to leave the cabin for days or possibly weeks (according to Villanelle, at least)._

 

_Well the blonde_ is _Russian, Eve reasons with herself. She knows how to take care in extreme conditions._

 

_The movie plays on, though Eve feels herself yielding to the pull of what promises to be her first peaceful night’s sleep since before Bill’s birthday party. Villanelle remains under her, awake because she has not seen this movie yet and wants to know what Emma Thompson will do to her husband, awake because she does not want to leave Eve on her own even for a minute. Heavy_ _arms anchored around her waist, Eve feels Villanelle breathe it over and over, in languages both familiar and strange:_

 

_You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine._

 

 

(she is, she is, she is)


End file.
